I hated the heat; the kind that would scorch you inside-out, boil the sweat in your pores, make you grope in the road and eventually, send those big hammers in your burning head. I hated the cold; no, not the kind that would just give you goosebumps--- but the biting, piercing cold that sends shivers down your spine; the kind that would make you grit your teeth and make you lock your head between your knees. I'm talking about the cold that makes you freeze and crumble wherever you are positioned--- the kind that would deprive you of sleep--- the kind that knocks your breath off your system--- the kind that is almost painful. I hated the long, seemingly endless trail; the rocky, steep, dizzying cliffs; the sharp stones that prick your soles; the wild grasses and twigs that scrape your skin... oh! The flaring of the nostrils and the panting and the gasping for air that follows! Well now, I don't really hate everything per se. I only hated the big, naughty, enormous sun and its sinister grin. I only hated the unfriendly frost--- too much of it during the night, and maybe, the utter discomfort of the situation up there in the middle of the wilderness --- almost a mile away from civilization.
Life of a "demi" mountaineer, in a more or less rough estimate is like this, hehe... though no longer a neophyte in trekking and mountaineering stuff, i call myself as such because i still trust that i haven't gone half-way of what it really takes to be a true-blooded mountaineer. I still don't have both the heart and the stomach, I'm afraid. Oh yes, I can bear with the day-long hiking--- cutting through fields and cliffs and mountains whether under rough or fine weather conditions. I can bear with the intense muscular pains here and there afterwards; the kind of aches that would make me feel at the same time make me look like a quadriplegic (because it robs me of movement! any slight movement is a hell of pain!) I can withstand the throbbing blisters in my soles and ankles and the itchy, hurting lashes of broken skin tissues in my arms and legs or the persistent poundings in my head. I don't mind the weariness and the exhaustion experienced especially if you go against gravity. I don't mind the awkwardness felt during sleeping time when you're made to squeeze yourself into a cute tent for three. I don't fuss around thinking about water sources, as long as I have gulps of it to quench my deep thirst. I can stand the churning of my intestinal walls--- a gum will do to defy hunger. And I must say that i'm getting used to (if not getting comfortable with) getting a public bath, a public peeing and -- hehe, you know what else I mean. Well, it's not a heart-warming, pleasant experience (dramatic perhaps!) but you won't have a choice when you're up there. You'll just have to make use of any available material at hand--- "do it or die" in other words.
I have had lots of thoughts about climbing since the first time i tried it February of last year. our destination, on the other hand is just the same: Mantalongon, Dalaguete to Badian, Cebu. during our first and merriest climb, more than a dozen students were with us. And so far, it was the worst! The experience was terrible; for we were welcomed by a storm the moment we stepped into the undertaking, making us back off to save our necks. It was awful because we lost our way, making us take the risk of cutting through strange, slippery hills; muddy cornfields, vast farmlands; dangerous, edgy cliffs and rough rivers (maau nlang gani naa c Buki hu served as a human post nga maoy midawat kada usa namo para lang mkatabok!) It was creepy; for we found ourselves being scrutinized by odd people in a queer village. There were no lights, no food, no water, no transportation, no signal--- all we had were the rain in torrents, the stinging cold against our skin, the threat of the nightfall, the sour friction of our intestinal walls, the mounting worries and maybe -- the fear. But then, the long weary day wasn't that bad after all; for some sort of miracle happened. We were led to our final stop and finally, we were able to go home safe and sound.
My second come-back in the chilly mountains of Mantalongon was last October 15, 2006. the experience was not as tough as the first one though but it also had its own perils that nearly took one of our team mates. This time, with a smaller backpack (courtesy of harris) and definitely a lighter weight on my back, I braved again the inscrutable mixture of heat and mist of the weather and the terrifying depths of the mountain ridges. This time, we conquered Osmeña Peak. We inhaled the fog and lingered with the new-found pride because of that little achievement.
I learned that talking and giggling while trekking aren't useful. Talking just slackens your pace, weakens your energy level, diverts your attention, as well as spoils your concentration and above all, increases your tendency to trip over and fall. Of course, the monotonous cadence of my fellow trekkers was broken by sudden thuds, startled shrieks, muffled curses and even bellows of pain all throughout the journey. I was not an exemption. I fell for the nths time--- making me a record breaker para sa knadaghana'g 'dakdak'! saon!
On our second night, we camped at Kawasan (d third flr; kanang source gyud sa falls), where I was racked by chills and shivers at night. My inner convulsions scared me. My inner tremor was so great that I almost felt my heart or could be my lungs blocking my throat! I damned the cold for that, but it didn't cease. Only after a couple of hours when my chills stopped and I was spared.
But what really weighs more than the kilograms of loads on our backs-- what really weighs heavier than the tons of sweat that me and my fellow climbers shed-- was the rare opportunity to be with the lowly mountain people-- the less fortunate ones--- our less fortunate brothers and sisters. I abhor going maudlin (coz in the first place, m not a slave of my own emotions) but seeing these humble rustic folks smile makes me feel being gunned down. Each bashful yet sincere smile they flash at me seems like a bullet through my head (err.. heart?) each shy, apprehensive glance seems like another bullet. Each subtle, polite word these humble people utter seems like another bullet.. and another... and another. Boy! could it be that i have died several times? I have been shot many times over, that I am certain-- and it's terribly painful. It's horribly unthinkable. It pains me everytime. But just why are they too real? Why are they too simple and uncomplicated? Why do they smile so readily? and, just why are they too happy? Isn't Happiness an elusive concept? But yes, they have it--- and I envy them.
I envy them. I envy their naivete--- their innocence. They live a life most of us probably dare not imagine: poverty-stricken and a leap behind the modernization of the world. I even sneered at the first thought of it, but that was before i got killed. :-) I saw them smiled again in-between spoonfuls of spaghetti that we prepared for them. I saw them smiled again when they gave their heartfelt thanks-- then, they flashed those fatal smiles again when we turned to leave. This was during our third climb (March 30, 2007) and as usual, something inside me crumbled. As usual, there was that familiar bolt of pain. How I have suffered a hundred deaths! Yet, surprisingly, how those lowly commoners humbled me. How those hundred deaths made me whole!
Nah. Forget about me hating the scorching heat of the sun or of the nasty sun's battering against my back. Forget about me hating the freezing coldness of the night or of the night's icy clasp of my nape. Forget about the long and winding trails of the mighty mountains or of the mountains' nasty pull of our weary legs. This was before I got massacred, anyway.
